


a simple state of being

by asphodellae



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Insecure Miya Atsumu, Miya Atsumu Needs a Hug, Miya Twin Study, Plans For The Future, Pre-Relationship, Reconciliation, Sad Miya Atsumu, Soft Sakusa Kiyoomi, brief MSBY4 interaction, sakuatsu if you squint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:35:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28441767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asphodellae/pseuds/asphodellae
Summary: absence: Something is missing in Miya Atsumu's life. It's something he's ignored and let fester, carving Atsumu's heart until it threatens to overtake the whole thing.presence: Now reconciled, Atsumu and Osamu go out hiking. At the end of the day, a watchful friend offers a shoulder to cry on, as well as homemade hot chocolate.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu & Miya Osamu, Miya Atsumu & Sakusa Kiyoomi, Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 7
Kudos: 127





	a simple state of being

**Author's Note:**

> *holds miya atsumu* i just think he's neat. and also he suffers more than he lets on.

“When we’re on our deathbeds, I’m going to turn and look at you right in your face,” Wait, no, Atsumu doesn’t mean to say it with this much venom— “And say I had the happier life!”

Later, if Atsumu hears someone on the other side of his shared bedroom trying their hardest to muffle voiceless sobs and quiet sniffles at two in the morning, he doesn’t hear anything.

* * *

Atsumu is twenty-four now, and on top of the world.

Whenever he steps onto the volleyball court, the crowds cheer. He’s on sports magazine covers, he’s been voted “prettiest setter” on Twitter, he gets into the VIP section at clubs, and—

He can feel his knees beginning to do… something. As in shape as he is, the constant use is starting to wear on Atsumu’s body. When he lands wrong, or bends in a certain way, something in his knees gives a twinge, a pang, a _warning_ , and Atsumu knows his knees will remember this transgression. In the past week alone, there have been two transgressions. He knows that in half a decade, his knees may not be so forgiving. Atsumu’s knees are just barely beginning to decay faster than he can bring them new life.

It’s a common thing for athletes in volleyball to have worn-out knees. It’s one of the main reasons for retiring. No one bats an eye at senior athletes announcing retirement, because it makes sense. The years wear them down. The years wear everyone down. No one can play professional volleyball forever.

No one tells Atsumu how to handle the sinking feeling in his chest.

* * *

“...What are you looking at me for, Miya?” Sakusa says three days after the sinking feeling, as Atsumu’s thoughts of a backup plan spin and twirl in his brain and come up with nothing. Atsumu hadn’t realized he’d been staring.

The members of MSBY are changing in the locker room before practice. Atsumu realizes he probably looks like a creep. He forces himself back to reality.

“Oh, was I staring at you, Omi-kun? My bad!” Atsumu gives the other man a grin that looks more genuine than it feels. “I was wondering, what did you study in college?”

“Stop with that face you’re making. It’s gross.” _He saw right through me, dammit_ — “I majored in exercise science.”

Hinata’s head pops up from the other side of the locker room. “Isn’t that a pretty useless undergraduate degree? Won’t you have to go to medical school for anything to do in that field?”

“Not really. There’s a lot to do in that field, but if I do end up going to medical school, it won’t be so bad,” Sakusa replies, “At least I have a backup plan, unlike you three.”

Three indignant shouts echo against the tile walls of the locker room. The senior MSBY members chuckle, Meian especially. Atsumu doesn’t want to know. Then, to Hinata’s delight and Atsumu’s existential horror, Bokuto grins and reveals that he’s currently taking online classes for sociology.

It makes sense, actually. Bokuto has always been particularly perceptive of his own emotional state as well as others’. The only response that Atsumu can think of is the saying, “it’s always the quiet ones,” but Bokuto is anything but quiet. So is Atsumu, on a regular day. He wonders if anyone—besides Omi—can tell it’s not a regular day for him. If anyone watches Atsumu as closely as he watches others.

* * *

The hum of the refrigerator is the only noise in Atsumu’s apartment.

Now, don’t judge him. It’s rare for him to be alone on a Saturday night. Atsumu is handsome and he knows it; he is plenty capable of making himself look good enough for anyone to devour. He isn’t picky. A trip to the club or the local bar, and Atsumu can find himself someone to spend the night with. But this past week has drained him, so to say. Something more important weighs on him and in the back of his mind, Atsumu knows that he probably shouldn’t go too far down this line of thinking, but—

Here are three things Atsumu knows about himself:

One, he’s an asshole. On the court, Atsumu demands only the best from his teammates. He demands the best and more from them daily, establishing an even higher standard than the day prior. Atsumu _intentionally_ creates this feedback loop, sending his tosses higher and higher, until the team amasses so much raw power that it explodes in their faces, and they have to start from (a new and terrifyingly improved) square one. It only works because his teammates are just as demanding as he is.

Two, he’s vain. He prides himself on his looks, and goes out of his way to maintain them. His favorite hairdresser is an hour away. He makes the trip monthly. Occasionally, Atsumu will lie in bed and hold his hands up to the sky, studying the way the muscles flex as he fans his fingers out, marvelling at how they can do such amazing things with only this much surface area. Then, he realizes that he uses his whole body for volleyball, and marvells at that too. Atsumu knows his body is a result of decades of hard work, but still. Wow.

Three, Atsumu is a liar. Osamu can attest to this one. Multiple instances of Atsumu stealing his twin’s food (then lying about not having stolen it) have been the cause of fistfights that have gotten them in trouble with their parents _and_ their high school team’s captain. Kita Shinsuke is a force to be reckoned with when angry, even more so when disappointed. Kita once looked at Atsumu with the expression of a disappointed father and it hurt more than his actual father’s disappointed face.

Here are three things Atsumu knows about himself, but wishes he didn’t:

One, he’s an asshole. He made Osamu cry when it really mattered, during their big fight in high school, and he has yet to truly apologize. He should. He’s the older brother. Even if it’s only by a few minutes. More than that, Atsumu hurt Osamu’s feelings. He invalidated Osamu’s dreams, then. And although Osamu is living his best life now, Atsumu feels sick when he remembers the things he said. Why did he say those things?

Two, he worries constantly. It comes with the perceptiveness of being a setter. Growing up, Atsumu had come to know one very specific progression of actions. Atsumu’s mother always eats scrambled eggs at some point during breakfast. He knows that his mother only salts her scrambled eggs during the mixing process. If his mother salts her scrambled eggs after cooking them, Atsumu knows there’s something stressful on her mind. Atsumu is a common source of his mother’s stress. Is it him this time? (Isn’t it always?)

Three, Atsumu is a liar. He acts obnoxious and flippant and downright rude to people, because it’s less painful for Atsumu to be hated for the image he puts out than for the real version of himself that he keeps locked away. _That_ Atsumu is an anxious, insecure creature who cares too much, and thus gets hurt easily. Truthfully, Atsumu’s hands are so cold that even the gentlest warmth is enough to burn— he is so lonely that genuine love is not only foreign but _terrifying_ , and instead, Atsumu is lost in the meandering city streets of one-night-stands and casual hookups. Always searching for a place to stay, always a “no” lighting up the vacancy sign. Outwardly, his abrasiveness is second-nature now. Who is Atsumu, really?

_Stop with that face you’re making. It’s gross._

Atsumu buries his face in his hands. Beneath it all, every sly smirk and snide comment, Atsumu is a veritable ocean of so much _more_. He doesn’t need to be complicated. He doesn’t want to be. He has volleyball. There is no need for _emotions_ —he sneers inwardly at this—when Atsumu has volleyball. But his heart has gotten the best of him, this time. How did he let himself slip? What did Sakusa see at that time?

Sprawled on the couch, back curled into a position that he knows his body will hate him for later, Atsumu scrolls mindlessly on his phone. He opens up Youtube, searching through the trending page for something to distract him. Osaka nightlife is not quiet in the least, but, secluded in his little apartment, it is the lack of noise, the lack of _life_ , that fills his ears and threatens to drown him. It is when he is up to his nose in silence that he finds a video that piques his interest.

“‘A playlist for people who are always the second option,’ huh?”

Atsumu hits the play button, and thinks.

Atsumu is not “always the second option.” He knows he isn’t—he’s first-string setter for the MBSY Black Jackals, a champion Division 1 team in the V League. He had gotten scouted straight out of high school. He has enough sponsorship deals to fund his next three lifetimes. He has modeling deals for shits and giggles (and a little bit of MSBY advertising). Atsumu has attained success in so many ways, including the one thing that matters most to him in life: volleyball.

But knowing he’s successful isn’t the same as feeling successful. Right now, he feels far from it. It is a primal part of him—a childish, annoying, unwanted part of his brain (heart?) that rears its ugly head at times like these. It makes the shine of his successful career look like a diploma dropped in the rain—gold and silver tainted, tarnished… sad. It’s a dangerous feeling to dwell upon, one that fills Atsumu’s lungs and burns with every shuddering breath he takes.

Knowing is not the same thing as feeling, and oh, _oh_ …

Atsumu is _drowning_.

. . .Ah, shit. He fell asleep on the couch. Atsumu can tell; one, the room is no longer filled with the sad warbling of American singers, and two, his back does indeed hate him. He groans and slaps around for his phone, finding it placed precariously on the edge of his coffee table. Atsumu freezes, a softly mumbled curse passing his lips. The phone teeters on the edge of falling face flat onto the cold hardwood floor, the thought of which sends mild fear through his nervous system. Atsumu may be rolling in money, but mama didn’t raise a wasteful son. Unfortunately for him, it is in this exact moment that his phone vibrates with a notification, and it clatters to the ground despite his care. He just barely manages to miss it, fingers close enough to feel the wind it made as it fell, but just out of reach to touch. The loss feels like more than just a silly little mistake. It is everything from the past week. Atsumu wants to cry.

He doesn’t. He picks up his phone from the floor like a good, emotionally-stable adult—no cracks, thank god—and makes his way to his bedroom, tired in more ways than one.

A fourth thing that Atsumu wishes he didn’t know about himself: Atsumu cares way too much. It usually manifests itself in the worst ways possible; he comes off as an asshole in the moments he tries to be genuine, he lets his words run away from him and turn into insults, and he never really says what he means unless it’s squeezed and wheedled and manipulated out of him. Atsumu is scathing, a worrywart, and a fake. Scathing so as to not baby the people he cares to interact with, because it’s better for the truth to be out in the open rather than being given a sugar-coated lie. He’s a worrywart because he just can’t stop himself—his brain really does just take things and file them away for later use. It is his greatest blessing as a setter, so he can best support his teammates and keep them at their best, and his most cursed adversary as a regular human being. The mental toll on him is more than he cares to admit. It makes him irritable, which doesn’t really help with the asshole bit. Atsumu is a fake because—

> **Samu (23:49)  
>  Open the door asshat  
>  I have food**

Atsumu opens the door, of course. No one turns down free food.

“You know that thing where twins can kind of tell what’s going on with their twin, feeling it in their body or something like that? Twin telepathy?” At Atsumu’s nod, Osamu continues, “Yeah—did you have a fucking heart attack?”

“‘Samu, is that how you greet your beloved older brother?” Atsumu snorts, smirking as Osamu barrels past him into Atsumu’s apartment, plastic bags in tow. He doesn’t even live here, the bastard, and yet Osamu is visibly at home, hanging up his coat in the entryway closet and kicking his shoes into a sorry attempt at neatness.

“You? Beloved? Please, I kicked you out of the womb because I wanted some peace and quiet,” Osamu jabs at him, finally nudging his shoes into the correct position.

Atsumu deflates by a fraction, an action that Osamu catches in his peripherals, and the younger twin makes a face before thrusting the plastic takeout bags in his hand into Atsumu’s chest.

“I brought onigiri.”

Atsumu whoops, dashing to his dinner table before digging in. A burst of flavor hits his tongue upon the first bite; he registers the saltiness of the nori, the stable flavor of rice, and just the barest hint of buttery yet refreshing—

“Fatty tuna?! ‘Samuuu, you really do love me!” Atsumu’s eyes get a little misty as he eats. Leave it to his brother to know how to cheer him up. Food is Osamu’s love language, and all of Atsumu’s hard edges soften when his brother expresses his love like this. He feels honored, somehow, as if he subconsciously decided a long time ago that he was no longer worthy of someone caring for him like this. Atsumu doesn’t want to think too hard about that.

He does anyway.

Atsumu is a fake, because deep down, he cares too much, he—he _loves_ way too easily, and it scares him to the point of tears. (He doesn’t let anyone see, not even Osamu.) It is all-consuming, it is his true nature, and it hurts to the point of physical pain. Osamu is his most trusted (only) brother and most important friend, who Atsumu thought he would conquer the volleyball world with, who knows Atsumu and all his annoying habits and shortcomings, who had been by his side nearly every day since birth.

Osamu had still left him, then.

The fire for volleyball in Atsumu burned much brighter than it did in Osamu. Too much. Atsumu is alone now. Who’s to say that anyone else will stay?

“...‘Samu, remember our fight?”

Atsumu’s eyes burn with an emotion he doesn’t want to name. It’s simple in its nature, though. He’s been running a little too close to empty for a while, the _check engine_ sign on in his heart.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to say.”

“Sorry, right?”

Atsumu freezes.

Osamu snorts, “You’re about five years too late for that.”

Atsumu wants to cry. 

“Woah, hey,” Osamu startles at the mist in his brother’s eyes, “I never said I hated you for it, what are you crying for?”

Atsumu’s voice does _not_ break in his attempt to dispute that. Osamu hadn’t heard shit.

“But I made you cry, ‘Samu,'' Atsumu protests, “I shouldn’t have done that. No matter what, I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Well, you’ve always been shit with words, ‘Tsumu,” Osamu retorts. Fuck. He’s not very good at the whole _comforting_ thing, “I didn’t agonize over it for more than a night or two, really.”

“Two nights?!” Atsumu wails. “‘Samuuu…!”

“‘Tsumu, I need you to get it through your impossibly thick skull that it’s fine. I’m fine. You were looking out for me, I get it,” Osamu tentatively places his hand on Atsumu’s shoulder, and the blonde twin leans into it as if he’d suddenly been magnetized, “I understood your intentions then, and I still do now.”

Atsumu sniffles.

“And you’ve _been_ sorry. You never said it, because as I said earlier, you’re shit with words,” Osamu huffs amusedly, “but you’ve more than made it up to me with the last five years.”

Atsumu might be crying.

“I’m gonna win that bet by the way. Just you watch.”

_We’re fine._

Atsumu finally, _finally_ lets out his tears, and he shudders, throwing his arms around his brother’s chest and sobbing into his neck. Osamu rubs his back as he goes through it, the slides of his palms sloughing eons of weight off of Atsumu’s shoulders.

_How long have you been holding that in, Tsumu?_

They stay like that for a while, Osamu doing his damndest to comfort a man who’s never needed comfort of this magnitude before, Atsumu doing his damndest to hold himself together as the gravity of his emotions threatens to send him in every direction at once.

And because they’re both busy, working adults, Osamu hops on the first train back to his own home, near a top secret branch in Shibuya that’s set to open in spring. Atsumu walks his brother to the train station just to spend more time with him before whatever usually takes up Osamu’s time comes back for him.

Every step on Atsumu’s way home is as light as air.

**Author's Note:**

> stay tuned for presence, the final chapter! :)
> 
> Thank you for reading! I appreciate every single one of you. Remember to drink water, staying hydrated is very important!
> 
> If you'd like to see more from me, I've written lots more here on AO3! Come scream about Atsumu with me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/asphodellae)!


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